He stopped at an oil portrait of Robb hanging over a simple yet elegant cabinet. The man was bending slightly forward, as if ready to come right out of the painting. He was dressed casually in a sweatshirt, solid, middle-aged. A little more handsome than in real life. Jon peered at the signature in the lower right hand corner. Anna Robb. So the wife was an artist, and loved her husband right back.
Jon rubbed absently at a place on his chest, then shepherded Sophie to the far wall. He’d been right. The door opened onto an opulent bathroom with more showerheads than he’d had hot meals. Acres of tile and light green marble, accessories catering to every single bodily function, including…Jon looked at that shower with the built-in bench, his body automatically responding to the idea of him there with Sophie on his lap, hot water streaming down over them…Then he looked at Sophie’s bruised eyes.
No, he thought with a sigh. No way.
“We’re free to use anything in the house, I’m sure you can find something clean to wear. You’ll feel better after a shower and a change. I’ll check for another shower. I think I saw the kitchen and dining room on the way here so we can meet there in, say, ten minutes.” Sophie’s eyebrows rose. “Okay, fifteen.” They rose even higher and he sighed and said, “Meet you in the kitchen whenever you’re ready.”
Jon had time to shower, shave, find the kitchen, set the table and start studying the fully stocked fridge, freezer and pantry before Sophie showed up. He smelled her before he saw her. It was Anna Robb’s perfume—or shampoo or shower junk or whatever—but it suited Sophie. Fresh and spring-like and it mixed well with the smell of her own skin which was imprinted deeply into Jon’s lizard brain.
His dick sprang to attention.
Fuck.
He’d put his lightweight cotton sweat pants on and his woodie would be visible from the moon. Certainly from the drone overhead if it hadn’t already left.
Whatwasthis? His dick did what it was told, always. In the Cortez stronghold he’d had Joaquin’s sister constantly rubbing against him like a cat in heat. And since fucking Cortez’s sister while fucking with their business was a guaranteed one way ticket to a grave, he’d kept it in his pants. Even hinted he might be gay.
He didn’t care, because Carmela hadn’t turned him on in any way. He’d watched as, stoned out of her mind, she’d fucked her way through the entire security team in the compound and there’d been practically an army there.
So, no, Carmela wasn’t a temptation, but Sophie sure as hell was.
“Jon?” God, even hervoicenearly brought him to his knees. It certainly brought him fully, painfully erect. “What are you cooking?”
Luckily, Jon was a highly trained warrior with lightning-fast reflexes which had got him out of many a tight spot.
He grabbed an apron that was hanging next to the stove. It was one of those fancy full frontal heavy cotton things, deep burgundy with the name of some winery stitched on it in gold letters. Right across the chest. Perfect. Kept the eye on chest level and not lower. He was tying it around his waist when he turned and was able to keep his voice light.
“I don’t need to cook anything. Look.” With a dramatic flourish he opened the huge stainless steel refrigerator door open, covering himself. Not for nothing had they been taught to multi-task. Shoot and roll. Run and reconnoiter. Talk and hide a woodie.
Man, he was good.
Sophie buried her pretty head in the freezer compartment and while she was running through the ample selection, Jon thought truly terrible thoughts, like they could be dead this time tomorrow. Brought his boner right down, it did.
Sophie stood up with her arms full. “Ok, I’ve made my choices, do you want to go through them?”
“Nah, I’m happy to eat whatever you choose.”
She smiled. “Well then take that apron off and join me at the table.”
Oh, shit. “No, I uh—” It was really hard to think when the blood that was supposed to be in your head was lower down. “I’m going to nuke the nukeable ones and so that officially makes me cook, right? Chef, I mean.”
She tilted her head and examined him. The god of horny soldiers was with him because her eyes never went below his neck. “Okay. I saw a salad in the fridge, too. Do you want me to dress it?”
“Ah—” For just a second Jon pulled a blank, imagining a salad in a frilly dress. His hands were full so he couldn’t thunk himself in the forehead. “Yeah. Sure. I like balsamic.”
There was an MP6 player in a docking station and he switched it on. The room instantly filled with music. It was like being in the middle of a jazz ensemble. Right smack in the middle, next to the bass. The Robbs sure had top-notch stuff. Jon had priced a system like that and it cost upward of $20,000.
Sophie was boogeying to the table with a big salad bowl, barefoot, humming the tune she apparently knew. Some jazzed-up rock ballad.
Jon stared at her back as she fiddled with various condiments, pretty feet moving in some kind of complicated dance moves.
“Geeks dance?” he called as the microwave dinged and he took something out and put something else in. He couldn’t be bothered to look at what he was doing because Sophie dancing was just…magic.
She looked over her shoulder and smiled at him, did another little complicated dance move and bowed. “Ten years at Mrs. Purcell’s Dance Academy. Did classical ballet, jazz, ballroom. If you ask nicely and if I can find a pair of tap shoes I can tap dance for you.”
God. Sophie tap dancing. He’d pay good money to see that. Wait. They’d stolen millions from the cartel. He had lots of money. “I’d pay a million dollars to see you tap dance for me.”
Sophie laughed then looked at his face. Her pretty jaw dropped. “You’re serious.”
